HD 'Caffeinated'
by tigersilver
Summary: AU; EWE; for serpentinelion's Kink!Fest. Harry works in a bookshop, Draco's just there to pick up some reference material. Then, the unthinkable happens...thank Merlin there's a Guide for it!
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **'Caffeinated'  
**Author/Artist: ****tigersilver****  
Prompt: **Prompt 46 - submitted by **winter_poem**; serpentinelion Kink!Fest  
**Beta: ****lonerofthepack****  
Rating/Word Count: **6,900+/- (I am physiologically unable to write 'short', apparently.)  
**Author's Notes: From my prompter: "**_ERA: AU; Time Frame: young adults (20s?); Situation/Kink: Harry works in a book shop as a shop assistant, Draco walks in one day and is all "falls in love" and constantly comes to 'annoy' Harry. Harry = all "Leave me alone!" and angryish, but Draco makes it all better and "unfreezes his heart" (possibly been hurt by ex-lover?); Squicks to Avoid: Top!Harry, Sad endings (hate them) and that's all :)"  
_Dear **winter_poem** , I tried to hit them all and even toss in a few toppings for flavouring, but it's so much longer than it should be, sorry! Please forgive! (Bows to Terry Pratchett, whom I believe had something to do with that 'exploding corn'.)

Harry Potter on a caffeine high was a treat Draco Malfoy simply could not bear to miss—for the purposes of gratuitous mockery, only.

That was the initial excuse he gave out to his intimates for his diligent weekly visits to Flourish & Bott's brand new Hogsmeade location, and that was the one he stuck to like a limpet whenever Zabini or Parkinson (now Nott) quizzed him satirically concerning his peculiar reading habits.

For Draco Malfoy had discovered _manuals_. 'Idiot's Guides', the Muggles called them; Draco called them his crash course in the Brave New World; i.e. his post-Dark Lord, post-overbearing, manipulative father and post-clingy, over-protective mother's respective strangleholds on his personal life. Draco was a free man, these days (relatively speaking), but he'd no clue. The Guides were a gift direct from Merlin, in his estimation.

Wizards, naturally, had their own version, shelved side-by-side in adjoining sections, called the WizIdiot's Guides™. They constituted all the little 'life lessons' he'd somehow missed, whilst he was occupied with being a stuck-up, toffee-nosed, wrong-headed prat. After stumbling across his first 'self-help' book, Draco devoured every single one he could lay hands on, including the ones that addressed issues he'd never actually laid claim to, such as _Weak Wizards and Why Witches Are Doomed to Love Them_, _Muggle Real Estate: The Do's & Don'ts of Charming Static Architecture_ and _How I Overcame My Debilitating Shyness Through Positive Inner Dialogue and Pepper-Up Potions_. He'd even read _The Halfblood Spy Who Adored Me_, by Lavinia Shortshanks, noted romance novelist, on the off chance it might provide insight into the fascinating mind of the Muggle.

By additional chance and some external machinations on the part of persons unknown, but largely benign, Draco Malfoy currently taught Potions at Hogwarts. He was still on probation, certainly, but that was greatly relaxed on school grounds and their immediate environs, as Headmistress McGonagall had calmly informed the Ministry in no uncertain terms she'd not have any member of her staff, no matter how junior, rendered 'toothless as a mere babe' in these trying times. So, he retained his wand (returned via Owl post by Potter), his access to the Manor, all his Galleons (except for a hefty percentage paid in reparations) and the full use of his magic.

This was a fortunate turn of events, indeed. Draco, never having been a particularly dense chap, though certainly ill advised, promptly showed his gratitude to his benefactors by throwing himself full-tilt into Muggle appreciation. That, in turn, required research, and research naturally required texts and references, and ergo, the F&B bookstore every Saturday morning, like clockwork.

The first time he saw Potter there, he hid in the Children's Section and covertly watched the conqueror of Voldemort efficiently shelve three cartloads of stock in less than five minutes. It took a fast skim-through of _How to Win Friends and Influence Purebloods & Muggleborns Alike_ before Draco was ready to confront him.

Potter, on the other hand, was ready for bloody _anything_, judging by the brimming triple-espresso-shot cappuccino with whipped cream and sprinkles he had in the 32-ounce cup by his register. It was his second of the morning, per Draco's furtive count. That explained, at least, the screaming speed. Potter was nearly a blur when in action.

"Hullo, Potter," Draco offered, nodding stiffly but politely, when it was his turn to be cashed out. It was the first thing he'd said to Potter since the Fiendfyre Incident. He thought it went over well, considering.

"Hullo, Malfoy!" Potter hailed him, uber-cheerily. "So good to see you again! Been doing well?"

Draco nodded again warily, bound and determined to keep his new leaf shiny bright.

"Tolerable," he allowed, and pushed his soon-to-be acquisition forward to be rung up: _The Idiot's Guide to Driving an Automobile_. "And you?" he asked, after a short pause, during which he recalled it was PC to make nice with those of Mugglish persuasion, even if it meant actively interacting with the World's Greatest Git.

He heard Potter reply something along the lines of "Oh, I'm brilliant!" whilst his broad, long-fingered hands sorted out Draco's purchase.

And then Draco really looked Potter over, from head to toe, to judge for himself how the Golden Boy had fared in the year or so since he'd last seen him.

New, attractive haircut: check.

Clothes that fit and weren't immediately ghastly: check.

Extremely fine bottom: _check_! For Potter chose that particular moment to fumble-finger his biro and Draco got a nice eyeful of toned arsecheeks rippling in worn, tight-fitting Muggle denims when the Saviour bent over to retrieve it. His eyes widened and lingered; he couldn't help but lean forward slightly over the counter and track the flex of muscles as Potter rose back up. _Criminy!_ Draco took a deep, calming breath—internally.

Big green eyes—check! They were peering at him inquisitively over the non-rims of Potter's very dashing updated spectacles. Sculpted eyebrows—check! Potter must've had a professional makeover, the twat. Poncy little buff, beddable twat!

Clear skin: check! Slight trace of sexy dark stubble: check! Wide shoulders under that fetching dark green shop apron (that highlighted, incidentally, the depth of Potter's toad-hued eyes): accounted for!

"_Are_ you going to learn to drive a Muggle auto, Malfoy?" Potter inquired, without a trace of his old nasty taunting edge lurking anywhere about him. Draco gaped blankly at him, completely arse about face. "That's brill!" Potter burbled on, unfazed. "Well, I wish you better luck than I had with the Weasley's Anglia. Make sure to avoid the sentient flora and fauna!"

Engaging grin: check! Dimples: oh, yes! Eerily friendly, non-combative attitude—_check_!

"Um! Er—yes! Yes, as a matter of fact I am!" Draco blurted out, in a sudden, terrible hurry to reveal all the nitty-gritty details of his secretive second life as a Muggle-focused, closeted armchair anthropologist. "Fascinating things, Muggle motors, what? Thought I'd buy myself a little fast one for gadding about on the weekends; have some fun—and what do _you_ do on weekends, Potter?" Draco gabbled on, turning pink as his mouth continued flapping without his brain's say-so. "Anything amusing? Do you want to, maybe? This weekend? I'm completely free, see, so—"

"Malfoy?"

The stunning eyes were stunned, and so was the rest of Potter, by the looks of it. He actually took a fair step back from his side of the counter, edging away as he gingerly handed over Draco's receipt and parcel. Draco blushed madly and stuck a conciliatory hand out; he'd certainly not meant to come on quite so strongly. In fact, he hadn't intended to venture beyond the standard obligatory greetings courtesy required, much less have a go at pulling Potter! What, for gods' sake, ailed him so suddenly?

And then Draco Malfoy realized—with an appropriate inner cataclysmic jolt of gargantuan proportion—he'd just tumbled fathoms deep in love. _With_ Potter.

"Er!" he exclaimed, thinking quickly, epiphany or no. "Ah! Yes! _No_! One moment, Potter! Hold up, will you? Just need one more thing!" Instinct kicking in, he dashed off to the Self-Help Section once more at top gait and snatched himself up a copy of the _Idiot's Guide to Falling in Love_. Hesitating only briefly, he laid his frantic hands on one more essential Guide: the Muggle-authored _Kama Sutra_.

Best to swot up on all fronts, right?

**-o0o-**

As it was Saturday morning, Draco was lurking in F&B, dogging Potter's heels.

It was terribly early—only five minutes after opening time, but Draco had been waiting outside for quite half an hour, eager to see Potter. Potter, however, scowled instantly and veered off from his determined beeline to the café section when he caught Draco's beady eye on him, taking refuge behind his stock trolley instead.

Today, Potter was evidently solidly ensconced in the persona Draco was most familiar with: an evil little git with a chip. He actually snarled when Draco sauntered over.

"What the feck do you want, Malfoy?"

Malfoy wanted Potter to join him in a friendly game of Seeker's Quidditch, after work. He said as much.

"Naff off," Potter commanded, and got to shelving.

"Now, now, you know you want to, Potter," Draco egged his ancient archrival on to take affirmative action towards this Unity movement everyone was always talking up. He nimbly nipped after Potter as he swooped down the cramped aisles, stocking WizIdiot's Guides™ for everything from _Cosmically Correct Baby Naming_ to _Spell-It-Yourself Pumpkin Juice Brewing_. "Bet you can't beat me, Potter; not anymore," he taunted. "I've a leg up lately, what with helping Madame Hooch with the coaching, and I know for a fact you've not been on a real broom in ages."

Draco stopped his jibing for the moment and waited patiently for his quarry to glance over at him. When that didn't happen, Draco baited his trap with something far sweeter:

"You know, Potter," he drawled, running a fingertip over a book spine in a 'come hither' fashion, "I've a spare AirItalia _Ultrrapido_ lying about you might want to take out for a spin." That was simply the best racing broom on the market—and the most hideously dear. "_And_ a professional practice Snitch. _And_ the Pitch isn't booked this evening. We could make a night of it; snag some grub together."

"No!" Potter stamped off, dodging Draco by putting his evil rolling device between them, and then retreating to the safer shoals behind the cash register. "Leave me alone, you bleeding stalker! I've told you and told you, I'm not the least interested in spending time with you, Malfoy. Go the fuck away."

"Oh, come now, Potter. You know you'd enjoy it," Draco replied, adroitly stepping out of the way of the painful little metal wheels Potter sent spinning in his general direction. "Everyone loves a not-so-secret admirer; admit it," he coaxed. "And you certainly liked the case of Frogs I sent you—you ate the whole thing in one go, from what I heard."

"That was _you_?" Potter seemed shocked; Draco didn't know why that was so. The Guide said to be honest and upfront about his feelings. He'd made his tender emotions rather unctuously clear, he thought. The Guide also said it was advisable to demonstrate his ardour with little gifts and mementos, thoughtful items that would cause Potter to think of him fondly. That was just what he'd done, wasn't it?

Draco nodded happily to himself, satisfied he was proceeding correctly. "Yes, Potter. The lilies, too," he added proudly, but the effect of that confession was not what he'd hoped. Potter scowled harshly.

"Bespoke from Fantabula's Fantastick Florists, they were," Draco assured him, so his suspicious true-love wouldn't mistakenly assume they were snatched off some passing fly-by-night posy vendor, "in London, and do let me advise you, Potter, obtaining that particular shade of emerald green was _not_ easy—"

"Shut the fuck up, Malfoy!" Potter ordered sharply. "You know nothing about my mother—_nothing_—and go the hell away, won't you? I'm working!" he hissed.

"…Your mother?"

"Yes, my mother! Don't tell you've conveniently forgotten ridiculing me all those years for being a bloody orphan, Malfoy? Now leave at once, or I'll call my manager down on you!"

Draco took a step back. He hadn't forgotten, no; not at all. It was just that sources said Potter's favourite flower was the lily, and Potter's eyes being what they were, he…well. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I didn't mean to offend you, Potter, truly."

Potter glared scads of daggers at him, spun on his heel abruptly and stalked off to the coffee bar. Draco, feeling suddenly horribly inadequate, despite all his preparatory reading, for once didn't follow. In the distance, he overheard Potter order a quadruple latte, with extra Bott's Mini-Beans™ atop of a veritable tower of whipped cream, and simply had to shudder in utter revulsion. He himself had a sweet tooth, but Potter's was fast approaching ridiculous!

_Blech_!

Come to think of it…that was rather odd, wasn't it?

**-o0o-**

"How about this, then?" Draco offered the following Saturday morning. "We'll nip over to the Muggle cinema in Edinburgh and watch a film, Potter, we two. I'll be able to continue my research; we'll have the chance to spend quality time together in an equitable, safe, non-threatening atmosphere and you may take advantage of the opportunity to view the latest Humphrey Bogwart work, complete with that American corn that is exploded, all at _my _expense."

Potter opened his mouth, already shaking his head.

"Ah, ah, ah, Potter," Draco waved a finger at him, "No excuses; not this time. I do know for a fact you Halfblood types are very fond of, er, 'Bogie'; there's a whole chapter dedicated solely to him in the _WizIdiot's Guide™ to the Greats of Muggle Cinema_. You'll definitely enjoy yourself, no doubt about it."

Draco folded his arms across his chest and kept his hopeful eyes on his crush, who'd been occupied with sorting out the bollixed up Culinary Magic Section with almost mind-boggling speed. He'd adjusted his own artfully elegant drape over Potter's ever-present trolley upon arrival, to ensure his well-turned out Muggle-type suit was shown to full advantage and his own firm arse was eye-level with Potter's gaze, if and when the blighter eventually tore it away from the blasted bookshelves. Which he must do at some point; Potter simply couldn't keep his eyes averted all morning, could he?

Contrarily, Potter chose that moment to choke to death on his sip of his caramel two-shot grande, with extra whipped cream and butterscotch drizzles. Draco, sufficiently alarmed enough to force his attention away from Potter's likely negative response to his invitation, was all set to lean forward and cast a Vomitus to clear his love's precious airways when the git finally managed to cease his noxious hacking on his own.

"Excuse me?" Potter gasped, when he could. "D'you mean _Bogart_, Malfoy? _Humphrey_ Bogart?"

"Why, yes, Potter," Draco brightened up; here was a prime opportunity to show off a facet of his newly gained knowledge of Muggle culture. "Mister Bogwart has often been wrongly assumed a Wizard, but in actuality, he's a Muggle film star of great skill and charisma—"

"Malfoy, Bogart's dead." Potter was snickering into his whipped cream. It was dribbling onto his upper lip in a way that was seriously distracting. Draco licked his own in silent appreciation. Then it hit him.

"What!" Draco was appalled, honestly. Another unfortunate victim of the Dark Lord's reign, perhaps? It couldn't be! "No!"

"But yes," Potter replied, simply. "As a doornail, Malfoy; sorry." He took another sip, pausing in his perpetual shelving, and smiled a little more widely, watching Draco react.

"You're pulling my chain, Potter!" Draco protested, waving his hands about with elegance born and bred. "Bogwart simply can't be deceased! Why, that film about the White House—you know, the seat of the upstart colonial government—it's considered seminal by all the best Muggle critics—Seckle and Everheart, even! Tell me, was this recent? Was he ill or was it an…an accident?"

Draco almost whispered the last, leaning in very close so that if Potter revealed the Dark Lord's involvement, his understandable squeamishness would be disguised by the wavering stacks of tomes on the trolley. It wouldn't do to lose his cool over past terrors in public, would it? And especially not before Potter, whom he desperately hoped to impress—one of these fine days.

"Um, no, Malfoy," Potter was openly grinning, far too wide to disguise it, even under a frothy cream mustache, and his eyes were twinkling merrily. Draco took another of those calming breaths in an effort to reign in his active libido. This topping Potter was so fond of bore a remarkable resemblance to semen, and that led to trouser-stretching visions of the worst—best!—sort. "He died ages ago—well before we were ever born. It's fine, really; ancient history. Don't fuss yourself."

"Oh." Draco rocked back on his heels; he'd been rather counting on sharing in the spillover of Mister Bogwart's famous manly charisma—get Potter 'in the mood', as it were. This was a setback of serious proportions. "Then…would you rather see Mister Connery or Mister Rickman at the cinema, Potter? They're both quite…charismatic. Or, so reputable sources aver."

"A-Are they now? Do tell!"

Potter choked on his drink again and this time Draco quite thought it might be terminal. He whacked the foolhardy berk hard on the back to stop him from expiring on the industrial carpet and knocking over his silly trolley in the process. Potter smiled even more widely when he recovered and thanked him after, most sincerely. But they still didn't end up viewing a cinema show together, despite all that friendly contact and chat up, so that particular Saturday morning's effort had to be considered a non-starter.

Draco sulked all week, till Fata Morgana smiled upon him, out of the clear blue.

**-o0o-**


	2. Chapter 2

HD 'Caffeinated' Part 2

"Potter!"

Draco was thrilled to the bone. He'd gotten tickets to the upcoming semi-finals of the International Union Quidditch Association match, and the Ministry—thanks to his redoubtable Headmistress—was actually allowing him to attend _and_ to escort a guest of his choosing.

"Potter! What're you up to Saturday evening next? I've a pleasant surprise for you!"

Potter turned his dull eyes from his register and glared at him, soullessly. Draco noticed Potter's hands were trembling faintly; he was grey and pasty and looked as if he hadn't slept properly in a week. Still very attractive, of course, but perhaps not currently at his best, Potter was, even through rose-tinted spectacles.

"What? Are you ill, Potter?" Draco exclaimed, frowning his consternation. "You look simply repellent—should you even be here?"

"Cutting back on my caffeine intake, Malfoy," Potter growled, his sullen face a far cry from the sunny visage he usually treated F&B's clients to. And sometimes even Draco as well, according to no particular rhyme or reason Draco could figure. "Tell me what you want, Malfoy, or go and die; I don't care."

"Well!" Draco huffed, offended. "See if I invite _you_, Potter, and after I've made this special effort to obtain a VIP box seat and all—"

"For what?" Potter cut him off with no remorse. "What're you blabbering on about now, Malfoy?"

"_Quidditch_, Potter! I've excellent seats at the InterUnion match," Draco explained. He paused, and cleared his throat before staring Potter straight in the eye and stepping into the offensive. "Would you care to, er, go with? It's this Saturday coming—we'd have to Apparate from here as soon as you're off, but we could manage a meal in London after, if you'll Side-Along us back. I've curfew rounds, of course, but Flitwick'll cover for me, I'd think," Draco hurried to explicate. "I did him a favour with a simple potion for Googling Grimbley removal from Hufflepuff common room not long ago, so he's in my pocket right now, and then Headmistress is forever after me to get out and about and not fritter my life away in the dungeons, so—"

"Do shut it, Malfoy," Potter said ruthlessly, cutting him off at the nub. "No."

"No?"

"No."

"But—but, it's Quidditch, Potter!" Draco protested, brows beetling in confusion. "You adore Quidditch! And this is no local pick-up game, either; this is serious play! Come on, Potter—_do_!"

"Go away, Malfoy."

Draco blinked. He looked down at the latest Guide he'd picked up for, er, well, guidance: _Who Apparated My Gouda? And How Do I Retrieve It?_ and then back up at Potter in confusion. "I thought…I thought," he stammered. "You—"

"What?" Potter demanded, glaring. He clenched his hands into fists and pugnaciously squared off his jaw. "What did you think, Malfoy? That you could turn on the old Malfoy charm and I'd fall into your hands like an overripe plum? That I was easy, just because I happen to work in a retail establishment? That you'd get one over on me at last, playing this little game of yours, flirting and sending me presents?"

"What?" Draco was aghast. This wasn't a game! "No, Potter!" he began, meaning to say exactly that, but Potter was on a regular tear, and he wasn't stopping.

"You're a nasty, small-minded wastrel, Malfoy! A real git! Not content with harassing me all those years in Hogwarts, now you have the utter bollocks to come and pester me at my workplace! _And _act as though you always want to shag me soon as look at me—"

"I do," Draco admitted, having recently absorbed several eye-popping 'self-help' lessons about emotional honesty, "but—"

"That's just what I mean, Malfoy!" Potter ranted. "No respect! You couldn't care less how _I_ feel about it; it's all about you, just as always, isn't it? Well?" Potter seemed to expect this rash misstatement to be confirmed—as if! An irked Draco sneered at him, reverting under pressure to a few of his older, more unfortunate habits.

"Hardly!" Draco growled, elevating both his nose and his eyebrows in a lofty manner. "I care very much how you feel, Potter," he stated forthrightly, frowning mightily and looming. Draco wasn't at all vertically challenged; there was an art and science to his looming. Even Seventh Years had been known to quail miserably. "In fact, I care so much I'm here every bloody weekend, attempting to force you to at least speak with me civilly, if not actually step out in my company! And you—you have the bloody nerve to assume I'm taking the piss! How dare _you_, Potter?" Draco was enraged—except for the cold, still section in the centre of his gut, which was quietly observing all his efforts to coax Potter into appreciating him—wanting him—be shot to flinders like so many shattered balsa aeroplane models. "I really meant that, damn it all to Hades! I've meant everything I've said to you, Potter! I am _sincere_!"

"Pfft! Bosh!" Potter snorted. Then he clutched his head.

"What's wrong, Potter?" Draco asked immediately, his ominous looming segueing into instant anxiety over Potter's evident agony. "Headache?"

"Yes!" Potter hissed and rubbed at his temples irritably, grimacing. "Now, fuck off!"

"Oh, no, Potter, you come along," Draco ordered, and grabbed Potter's elbow. "This way; I know just the thing."

"What? No! Let go, you wretch! Leave me be to die my miserable death, Malfoy—the last thing I want is your help!"

"Wrong again, Potter," Draco replied, unequivocally, marching his captive over to the coffee bar and the bubbly young Witch manning it. "You do, in fact. I teach Potions, Potter—Potions! And, for some time now, I've suspected you've been self-medicating with all this caffeine you constantly consume. Anna Molly!" he claimed the attention of the flibbertigibbet Charmed-blonde teenage Witch who ran the café counter on Saturdays. "One tall _decaf _treacle-flavoured single-shot cappuccino, if you would, with sugar-free chocolate sprinkles and skim."

"Piss off, Malfoy!" Potter was still protesting and gamely attempting to wrestle his elbow away from Malfoy's immoveable grip. "Let go!"

"Coming right up, sir!" Anna Molly sang cheerfully, beaming. "So nice to see the two of you together, at last!"

"Thank you," Draco returned politely, blithely ignoring Potter's fruitless attempts to depart. "And thank you again," he added, when she handed the tall pasteboard cup over. "Now, Potter, sit your fit arse down and drink this, please. I think you'll find it helps considerably."

Potter, glaring, did just that, perching on a nearby stool with a miffed thump. Grabbing the cup, he took a long draw, almost inhaling the deliciously fragrant molasses-and-java-scented beverage up his nose in his hurry, his nostrils flaring with undisguised joy over the aroma. Draco developed an inconvenient boner immediately, simply watching Potter's lashes flutter.

"Hmmm," Potter moaned, cradling the cup as if it were the Grail of Arthur's Quest, magically returned from Avalon. "Oh, thiss'iss'ssoo good, Malfoy; yesss!" He was practically speaking in Parseltongue; Draco was practically creaming his trousers.

"Oh, Merlin, Merlin, Malfoy—you're a fecking Potions genius!" Potter admitted, after three more deep swallows that caused his lean, tanned throat to work like a pro's. There was a dot of whipped topping on the tip of his nose and one lonely sprinkle. Draco salivated and gulped, gagging to swipe the sweets clean with a flick of his own tongue. Potter sipped again, shifting trim hips on his stool in bone-deep satisfaction, his face visibly brightening with pure, sensual pleasure. Draco's regular respiration ceased altogether, his eyes bugging out.

"Mmm!" Potter breathed, almost orgasmically, "I could maybe even shag you for this idea, Malfoy," he admitted in a jesting, merry voice, and Draco had to clutch clumsily at the café counter simply to stay upright, he was so dizzy from _not_ hyperventilating.

"Gods, Potter!" he gasped. "Don't stop!"

"Ummm, Malfoy," Potter purred, apparently oblivious to Draco's distress, twirling his nearly emptied cup fondly in capable hands that were used to treating tomes ever so carefully and gazing at it with great admiration, "now, what was it you were saying about Quidditch?"

_Fingers!_ Draco thought, in code. _Mouth! Throat! Arse!_

Potter had consumed nearly three-quarters of the beverage and Draco simply couldn't bear it a moment longer; not and retain his tenuous grip on sanity. This was his chance—possibly his one and only—and he was bloody well taking it firmly in hand. "Where's the Men's lav in this place?" he demanded desperately of the ever-helpful Anna Molly, mentally willing Potter to remain in his excellent mood.

"_Oooh_, Mr. Malfoy!" she squealed, fluttering her eyelashes and peeping coyly up at him. "This is _soo _exciting—it's finally, finally the right moment for you two lovebirds to come together and _I _get to be right smack in the centre of it, helping you along! _Do_ swear you'll both sign a serviette for me afters—please, pretty _please_? As a sort of souvenir for the other girls?" she begged artlessly. "We've all been your fans for ever so long, Harry—Mr. Malfoy!"

Draco gaped blankly at her, not at all comprehending ruddy squeaking females who bounced their bosoms in excitement for no sane reason he could discern. He only wished to roger Potter through the buggering wall—imminently. Yesterday, even.

Potter's lips issued that remarkable noise of appreciation again—the humming trill that went straight to Draco's cock—and he drained his cup to the dregs, tipping his head back to do so and exposing the lickable length of his tanned throat. Draco nearly swallowed his own dried-out tongue. Surging forward, he clutched fiercely at Anna Molly's hand, squeezing it.

"Men's?" he pleaded helplessly of the excitable bint, his handsome face contorted into a rictus of barely leashed desire. "Please?"

"Oh—_oh_! Right back there, Mr. Malfoy!" Anna Molly waved a careless hand toward the rear of the shop. "Do enjoy yourselves! I'll keep guard; don't you worry about a thing!"

"Right—er, yes, thanks. Do that, will you? Come _on_, Potter! Hop it!"

Draco firmly removed the emptied vessel from Potter's languidly caressing fingers, yanked him back on his rubber-soled feet, and steered him even more firmly in the direction of the promised loo. "I can't stand it anymore," he muttered darkly, as they quick-stepped through the discreet archway that separated it from the main sales floor. "Salazar, I'm so through with this idiotic fucking about, Potter!"

"Mmmm?" Potter eyed him lazily—beatifically, even—as he trotted along, apparently so affected by the light dose of xanthene after hours of deprivation, he was now quite malleable, even pliant. Then he crooked his dark slashing eyebrows at Draco, dispelling that fanciful notion back to the rubbish heap of Draco's discarded fantasies. "Malfoy? Erm…what're you doing? I've a trolley to price out yet—I can't be taking a break."

"Yes, you can, Potter," Draco replied shortly, resolved and grim as a Grim. "You _are_. Right now."

He slammed the lav's door shut behind them, locking and warding it so it would take a bloody battalion of trolls armed with bludgeons to get through, and shoved Potter bodily up onto the sink's edge. "This minute," he continued, inwardly blessing the particular chemical makeup of caffeine dependency with all his thudding heart. Potter still looked sufficiently off—excellent!

"No more delaying; no more Mister Nicey-Nice Hufflepuff Malfoy, Potter," Draco announced, just to makes things crystal clear. "I'm done with all that roundabout shite, believe me—these Guide chappies can bog off! Raise your arse up now, Potter—that's it."

"What?" Potter's pleasurable remnants of daze were rapidly changing to a fully alarmed puzzlement as Draco commenced ripping his Muggle denims and briefs down over his incredibly toned arse, his sadly scarred and knobby knees, and then straight off his trim ankles, taking his trainers with them. "Huh, Malfoy? What's going on? Why're you taking my clothes off?"

"I said, that's _it_, Potter," Draco replied, ripping Potter's apron over his head and flinging it away. Potter's t-shirt followed in short order, along Draco's own neatly pressed trousers, kicked under the sink. "New motto, Potter: shag first, be sensitive and caring later!"

"Oh!" Potter exclaimed, a remarkably sly and knowing grin flickering 'round his foam-speckled, heat-reddened lips. He licked them. "I get it now. Well, if you put it like that, Malf—_mmph_!"

"No, Potter," Draco growled, detaching his lips from Potter's for one brief instant to inform his companion succinctly of the next step in his newly updated and highly personalized plan of Potter-management. He snapped thumb and ring finger sharply, the sound ricocheting off the tile. "Lubricius! I'm going to put it like _this_!" And then he shoved two slippery fingers into Potter's newly available arsehole and twisted like a champ, reaching for the nub of nerve endings he fucking well knew was in there, beckoning him, just asking for his masterful jiggle.

Potter arched his spine so far back his head whacked the mirror and moaned much more loudly than before. "Oh, that's brilliant!" he admitted, panting lightly. "That's very, very good, Malfoy! Absolutely smashing!"

"Yes; yes, it is, Potter," Draco agreed, vehemently. "Very!"

He crooked his digits, and slipped in yet another slick finger, shoving his own briefs down frantically with his other hand. Potter gave a delicious roll-and-wiggle on the lip of the counter, scooching backwards, and then drew his knees up, gripping the backs of them and exposing himself. Draco slavered like a winded sheepdog, his much-abusing tongue nearly falling out of his spinning head.

"Potter! Fuck, Potter!"

"Oi, Malfoy! Move it along there—I'm waiting," Potter responded, which was most awfully encouraging. Draco gathered up his all hard-won confidence at this arcane wooing business—and his tormented prick—and substituted it for his fingers after one final spin-and-twiddle in the blessed name of half-arsed penile-ready preparation. Potter's cock—nicely flushed and hard as marble, the only part of him that wasn't uniformly golden—bobbed insistently against Draco's navel as he muscled his hips forward, frantically shoving.

"So?" Potter asked, between choppy gasps, as Draco kept up his lurching surge, gritting his teeth in concentration, "You—ah! Jesus, Malfoy!— you mentioned Quidditch? Would —this—be a—date?"

"It is, indeed, Potter," Draco allowed, his balls smacking noisily into the cleft of Potter's phenomenal—now that he knew it so much the better, having just been intimately acquainted—Golden Saviour arse. "Gods fucking Salazar, it _is_!"

"I could—maybe! Fucking Hades!—do that," Potter admitted, breathily, lolling his head against the poor, abused mirror. "Maybe—I might—yessss! Shag me like _that_, Malfoy!"

"Draco—call me Draco," Draco ordered, slamming into reverse and then switching gears again with a rollicking grind that meant business. "If we're—oh, my fucking Merlin!—going to be dating—then do call—_me_—Dracooo!"

"Oh, fuck—oh, shite! Yeah!" Potter agreed, his green eyes rolling far back in their sockets. "Oh, yeah! Yeah-yeah-yeah! Draco! Draco-Draco-Draco!" he chanted. It was bloody marvelous to hear.

"Accio whipped cream!" Draco shouted, overcome mid-stroke with a sudden, queer and utterly irresistible urge to cover Potter's glorious abs with it, perhaps in celebratory ritual. "Accio sugar-free chocolate sprinkles!" he added, for good measure. Both of them handily ignored the metal vent hatch slamming open to facilitate the speedy delivery of these items. Better that, Draco determined, than having gaping peepholes punched through the lavatory's door.

"Draco?" Passion did not prevent Potter from raising his dark eyebrows in doubtful query. "Er?"

The aerosol dispenser slapped into Draco's outstretched hand with a 'thwap', followed closely by the sprinkle shaker, which Draco wandlessly spelled to hover till he needed it. "I've a mind to consume you, Potter—make you mine—all mine," he admitted, by way of cursory explanation. "Any objections?"

"Uh, um." Half-lidded eyes blinked at him, gradually widening in some species of shock. "Well…I'm not so sure about that…" Potter hesitated, cocking his head, dreamily glancing back and forth at the dispensers and the point between his wide-stretched thighs at which Draco was sawing into him with a nearly religious fervour. "I've—I've not done—whoa, there, Draco! Slow the feck down, will you?"

Draco did, entirely intent on Potter's next move in this quick-step gavotte of love.

"Um," Potter blushed. "Kinky things before. You're, erm, my first—"

Draco revealed all his teeth in a gloriously possessive manner. "First?" he encouraged. He encouraged with his dick, and by using his teeth on Potter's nipple.

"First!" Potter groaned, arching. "Unngh!"

It was all exceptionally unreal, this moment, Draco realized—he'd thought they'd work their way up to this slowly, but the Guides had advised to go with his instincts and his instincts were stating clearly that Potter was_ his_. So, yes—all omens said he should be claiming Potter on a permanent basis right as of this very moment. And he _would_, bugger it! Screw 'going slowly'—sod all those courting do's-and-don'ts!

"Potter?"

Still, Draco was gentleman enough to gave the man one last opportunity to object to his methods, as he slowly and hypnotically shook the can of cream, readying it.

"What say you? You want me?" Draco increased his in-out motion _and_ added 'sideways, with a shimmy', as a means of subtly encouraging Potter to make the correct—and really, the _only_ conceivable—choice. "You need me? Need my cock shoved up your hungry arsehole, every chance we get? Saturdays, Sundays—weekday nights? At luncheon?"

Potter still seemed a bit uncertain, so Draco hit his nicely nearly hairless chest with two short, chilly blasts of sweet fluffy froth. Potter flinched upon impact, causing a nice reverberation down below, and Draco licked him, long and hot—as in, bent right over and took the cream off his nipples with a tongue talented in all manner of persuasion.

"Well, fuck, Draco!" Potter was nodding—or that might be a sudden loss of muscle control; either way, it looked like agreement to a delighted Malfoy. "Oh-my-fucking-bloody-stars-fuck **YES**, Draco! Do that again!"

"Brilliant!" Draco exulted and let loose with the whipped cream in gay abandon. In seconds, Potter's washboard abdomen and flinching thighs were covered with it, and then Draco added the sprinkles, ever so slowly, matching thrust to shake. "Fucking delectable, Potter!" he admired, when he was finished, still pounding slowly away at Potter's prostate. "I'm going to bloody well eat you right up, you sexy git!"

"Do!" Potter begged, practically gargling. "Oh, please! Harder! More! Anything you fucking well want, Malfoy, but _harder_, for fuck's sake!"

"Will!" Draco assured him, and took Potter's sticky cock in hand, bringing him off whilst lapping and thrusting—which simultaneous motion lasted precisely twenty-two seconds, after which Potter shrieked through his nose and came like flood.

"Ah!" Draco grimaced, his dick buffeted by the waves rolling through Potter. "Oh! AH!" he shouted, and let himself go at last, plunging like a blooded stallion, arse cheeks clenched tighter than a virgin's knees and sporting a fine whipped-cream mustache.

"POT-_TER_!"

_Twenty minutes later…_

"Dating does not automatically lead to life-long commitment, Malfoy," Potter argued testily, zipping up. He'd spelled the damage to his clothes back in order, removed the stickiness and dessert toppings and efficiently located his shop apron—farthest stall over, but fortunately not actually stuffed into the john—all in two minutes flat.

"Yes. Yes, it does, Potter," Draco was adamant. "We've made great strides here today. I refuse to give ground." Muggle courtship rites were remarkably similar to Wizarding ones, from all he'd absorbed, and as he'd just taken Potter's virginity, he was obligated—_wait_!

"I'm not a bloody land bridge, Malfoy," Potter was saying dryly, "nor are we playing Muggle _Risk™_. No ground has been given here."

"You _were_ a virgin, weren't you, Potter?" Draco demanded, suddenly deeply suspicious. "I mean to say, you were certainly reluctant enough in the beginning. I quite thought you didn't care for me."

Now that he'd mentally stepped back and truly considered recent events, certain details weren't ringing quite true with Draco's shiny 'virgin territory' theory, whether Potter claimed Draco was his 'first' or no. The way Potter sucked him off during the second round, for instance; that was far too perfect to be solely the product of 'beginner's luck', no matter how bleeding lucky the git actually was.

"Potter?" Draco frowned heavily when an avowal of previous chastity wasn't instantly forthcoming. He beetled his pale brows menacingly at Potter and loomed methodically.

"Er," Potter looked shifty all the sudden. "How do you mean, 'virgin', exactly? Is this a hang up of yours, Malfoy?"

Draco stared at him grimly, pondering whilst he put the last details of his garb to rights, and weighed the depth of his innately bred sense of possessiveness against the breadth of his understandable requirement to be first in all things. This _was _a quandary. But not in any way insurmountable.

"Are you seeing anyone currently, Potter?" he asked instead of answering, narrowing his eyes to vicious molten slits of steel. Jealousy—thus far not a notable entity in their relationship—had raised its monstrously malformed head. "Or recently? In fact, exactly how many men have you been with, last count?"

"Only you," Potter replied quickly. "So far." He smiled—and it was that sly one Draco thought very dodgy.

"Hmm," Draco murmured, and continued on with his jealousy thing, unconvinced.

Potter then made a quite a business of washing his face and hands whilst Draco digested recent findings. Then he watched as Potter fussed with his hair, combing it back with his dampened fingers, and Draco was instantly distracted, eying the flyaway strands avidly, gagging to be the one to perform that little service. But Potter wasn't finished his thought yet, apparently. He cocked an eye at Draco's reflection in the still smeared mirror.

"Er—and, um, for the foreseeable future, as well, Malfoy. Perhaps."

The twat flushed ever so faintly, admitting that, and grinned lopsidedly at his own damp face, eyes aglimmer with some unholy light. When he glanced back up to meet his brand new lover's assessing stare in the mirror, the flush had faded and his eyes were brimful of teasing challenge, instead. "Providing, of course, you can keep that kind of fascinating intensity going strong, Malfoy. Can you?"

"Oh, not to worry, Potter," Draco replied magnanimously, for once completely confident of his both his inventiveness and his prowess—in that particular arena. Flexible was virtually his middle name, these days. "But _you, _now—you're sure of this, Potter?"

Having decided at last that territoriality was what was truly crucial to his health and mental welfare, Draco crowded the sneaky little git of a Boy back against the damp lip of the sink, pressing himself insistently all down the length of Potter's shapely backside through the apron strings. "No take-backs? No skiving off dates just because you have a sudden fancy for winding me up or cockblocking me out of spite, Potter? Because, you realize, I simply shan't stand for that nonsense. I've told you I was serious about you, you bloody alluring little pipsqueak, and I fucking well meant it."

"Draco," Potter turned about and looked up at him, the movement sending him conveniently into Draco's embrace. "Look, _you_ squinty-eyed, overfed berk, thus far and to date, my life's been pretty much an open book—just ask anyone; they'll tell you—and I've learnt from nasty experience I'd rather not be forced to tell lies if I don't have to, so…if I've said it, then likely I meant it, alright? Ease up, arsehole. I'm serious enough."

"Yeah?" Draco nuzzled his beaky nose into Potter's kiss-bitten neck and attempted to quell his alarmingly goofy grin before Potter clued in on just how nerve-wracked courtship rites—_any _variety—left him. But still...the whipped cream had been fucking-fun-tastic. He'd do that again at the drop of a bowler! "You're sure about that, Potter? And—and you'll go to the Quidditch match with me? No lie?"

"Yes," Potter murmured, casually brushing his lips through Draco's hair, whilst pinching his arse fondly. "It's fine, Malfoy, really; I fancy you anyway—have for a while now, for some reason. Must be off my nut, but hey, that's how it goes, sometimes. Now, let me get back to my register and you can bugger off away till I'm done. Go pick up the one WizIdiot Guide™ you're actually going to need, prat."

"Which one's that?" More silly grinning. Draco fondly gnawed on Potter's nape to hide it. Potter's all-over responsive blush and low moan sent his pulse pounding in his matching ears. "And when_ are_ you finished here, exactly?"

"_The Pureblood Idiot's Guide to Modern Wizarding Dating_, 13th Edition," Potter's voice was smiling; Draco's own grin grew in knee-jerk reaction. "You've got some serious revision still ahead of you, nit. And it's three—I'll be expecting you, right?"

Draco finally revealed his shite-eating grin to Potter in all its cheesy glory. "I'll be waiting," he promised indulgently. He petted Potter's hair just because now he could.

"See that you are," Potter replied, returned to all business abruptly via a glance at his watch. "And bring me along a cuppa decaf, will you? Extra whipped cream."

Draco's eyebrows rose in gentle query. "Off caffeine so suddenly, Potter? That's unusual. Withdrawal can be upwards of a fortnight, according to the Muggle studies."

"Oh…" Potter quirked his lips and tilted his chin, glinting up at Draco in a very inviting way. "Well, I rather think I've found a new drug of choice, Draco—don't you?"

Finite


End file.
